Sabtos pulled at his goatee. He was the best producer in the entire nation, and as a director he was a genius. He wondered for the thousandth time since he'd started this project why he was working on such a crap picture."Someone find out if that's technically possible."
"It's not," a voice said from the darkness.
"Ah . . . who are you?"
"Does it matter?"
"I . . . I don't know."
"Well, think about it, and get back to me later."
"Listen, lady, I don't know who you think you are, but I'm trying to film a movie here, and time is money."
"And money is time," a female voice different from the first said.
"I really miss Pris," the first voice said.
"Lights up," the director ordered. As the lights were going up he put on his most angry director voice."Listen, people, groupies aren't allowed . . ." he had been standing up out of his chair as he spoke, and when he saw who was standing there he almost fell. But he was able to turn it into a deep bow."My Queen, a thousand pardons, how may your humble servant aid you?"
"By producing and directing my war."
Stasha was glad she had been in her own quarters and not in the medical unit with Dylan when Facto came to tell her that Drewcila had considered her feelings and was allowing her to make all the decisions concerning Zarco's funeral.
There was a great deal of guilt swimming in her head as she tried to make the arrangements. Mostly because Drew had been right, and after sleeping with Dylan she had all but forgotten about poor Zarco.
She could still feel Dylan's hands where they had touched her, and when she thought about what they had done, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
Drewcila hadn't just been being her usual deceitful self. Zarco
had
been a horrible lover. Oddly enough, she had thought she'd experienced orgasm before, and just didn't think it was the big deal others made it out to be, or worse yet that there was something wrong with her. After her night with Dylan, she knew that
she
hadn't been the problem.
Besides which she now admitted, if only to herself, that what she had felt for Zarco was sick infatuation and not love at all. Because she was sure that she was now completely and totally in love with the human male who made her blood boil.
Then there was that other thing—Zarco had never loved her. She also admitted that Drew had been right about something else—Zarco hadn't loved Drewcila, either. His attachment to Drew, like Stasha's attachment to him, was a sick desire to own someone who didn't want you. He might have once loved Taralin, but Drewcila wasn't Taralin in any way that mattered. Maybe he had truly believed that he could turn Drew back into Taralin, but right now Stasha even doubted that.
So this whole thing was just very hard for her. On the one hand she was pleased that her sister had considered her feelings instead of just flushing Zarco's remains down a toilet, as Drew had suggested at least once. On the other, everything had changed completely for her in the last twenty-four hours, and she was finding it hard to feel anything but relief at Zarco's passing. He had completely disregarded her feelings, slept with her sister, and perhaps most surprising of all, he had been easily replaced in her heart by another.
So it was that she found herself rushing through the arrangements, always doing what was least expensive. The more she worked on trying to feel grief over his passing, the more things she found to be angry about. She would go into the past trying to remember some tender moment they had shared, and would wind up dredging up yet another time when he had completely discounted her and how she felt. By the time she got around to ordering the flowers, she decided he really didn't need them.
She would be expected to give a eulogy, and since she never wrote her own speeches, that meant she really needed to talk to Drewcila. Margot, who had been helping her with the preparations all day, had just announced that Drewcila had recently returned to the castle.
"I've got to go talk to my sister about the eulogy. Keep trying to reach the priest."
"Yes, my lady," Margot said.
Stasha was glad it was a long walk to her sister's office for many reasons, not the least of which that she had to remind herself that she would be expected to still be angry with Drewcila, and that she was supposed to be deeply grieved. The euphoric post-orgasm smile Stasha hadn't been able to wipe off her face all morning wouldn't do. She stopped herself from dropping by Dylan's room on her way. If Stasha had seen him, she would have had to stop at least long enough to have sex with him, and she had many things to accomplish. Besides, then she never would have been able to wipe the smirk from her face.
When she walked in the office, workmen were moving in still more electronic equipment, and maps and charts and graphs were being plastered to the walls—and surprisingly—over the windows. Her sister sat in a chair looking at where a window should have been, her back to the room. But the strangest sight of all had to be Van Gar and Arcadia working together at a computer console on the far side of the room. Just yesterday evening Stasha had been present when the two had run into each other in the hall. They had addressed each other with such animosity that Stasha had been sure they would come to blows. It had been all Drew could do to keep them separated. Now they were chatting idly as they worked, just as if they were the best of friends.
"My pussy itches. It must be going to rain," Drew announced.
"Drewcila . . . must you always be so disgustingly crude?" Stasha said, thinking that she should have known that her sister wouldn't make it very hard for her to find something to be upset at her about.
"Stasha, what in hell's name do you have your panties in a knot about this time?" Drewcila spun around in the chair, and there was a cat sitting in her lap. Drew was scratching its head.
"Ah . . . nothing. Sorry, I'm just a little tense. I thought you were saying . . . Oh, never mind. Listen, about the eulogy, have you written that yet?" Stasha asked.
"You write it, Stasha. If I write it, it's going to say something I took off a bathroom stall, like . . .
Here I sit all broken hearted—Tried to shit, but only farted
. I'll pretend like there is some deep hidden meaning to it, people will believe that there is, and soon it will be the prayer recited at every funeral. We don't want that, do we? Royal responsibility and all that good rot. Think of something really nice to say about the stiff. You loved him—I didn't."
Stasha looked from the workmen to her sister. Apparently Drewcila didn't really care who knew how she felt.
Drew seemed to know what she was thinking."Movie people. If you can't trust them, who can you trust?"
"Just what are they doing?" Stasha asked curiously.
"Making this look like the greatest war room ever. See all that new electronic hooha? None of it's real. It's just painted cardboard boxes with holiday lights stuck through holes and little pieces of plastic glued on to look like buttons. See all the graphs and maps and stuff? None of the information on the graphs means shit, and none of the hundreds of military bases on those maps even exist." She laughed then."Those rank amateurs will rue the day they decided to screw with me. Right now, even as we speak, a huge battalion of particle board and plastic-coated cardboard tanks are being built in the Taralin Desert. Painted cardboard tubes are being made into hundreds of anti-aircraft guns which will be set up on every building more than fifteen stories tall . . ."
"Drewcila! You can't fight a war with bad stage props," Stasha said in disbelief.
"A little respect for these people's craft, Stasha. I'll have you know they're very
good
stage props!" Drew protested "I've hired the best studio in the country and some of the brightest stars. We can't lose."
"You are completely insane. However, since I have seen you do crazier things that actually worked, I'm not going to worry about it. But Drew . . . I don't think I can write a eulogy, not and make it sound like I'm you."
"Would you like to borrow one of our script writers?" Drew asked.
"I'm serious."
"So was I . . . Listen, Stasha, I don't care what I say about him. Seriously, would you really want to speak the words I'd have to send him off? I'm only good at bullshit when I think it can get me something," Drew said.
Stasha nodded silently and almost asked for the script writer."I'll think of something that will come from the heart." She was about to leave when Van Gar and Arcadia laughed at something. She turned to look at them, and her face must have shown her disbelief, because Drewcila answered the look on her face.
"They have decided to share me, and in return I have promised not to cheat on them," she said with a shrug.
Stasha smiled back at Drew and said in a flippant tone, "So you've finally decided to settle down."
Drewcila laughed."Yeah, what can I say? There comes a time in a young salvager's life when you realize it's time to stop screwing around, settle down with a huge Chitzsky male and a Valtarian lizard woman, get a nice ship, maybe buy a couple of small satellites . . . So, are you still mad at me?"
Stasha sighed and told the truth."I want to be. I ought to be. It's just hard to stay mad at you. I don't know why, really. You certainly seem to work hard enough at keeping me mad."
A man swept into the room holding up a sketch of a uniform."Too fluffy, Kraling. I must look tough, ready for battle and smug as hell. And so must all my generals."
The man grumbled as he rolled up the sketch and left the room.
"Wardrobe!" Drew exclaimed, throwing up her hands.
Stasha smiled and left.
Drew threw the cat out of her lap and stood up. Then she scratched her crotch and addressed Van Gar and Arcadia, "I don't know if this crap is ever going to wear off."
"Let's see your tongue," Arcadia said.
Drew stuck it out.
"It doesn't seem as dark today. I'm pretty sure it's fading."
"My crotch itches like a mother fucker," Drew said.
"Drew, I swear, if you give me the space crabs again . . ." Van Gar hissed.
"Keep your pants on, ass bite, I don't have crabs."
"How do you know?"
"I'd know if I had crabs," Drew said.
"You didn't last time," Van said. He turned to glare at Arcadia, who was chuckling, "You wouldn't think it was so damn funny if you could get them."
"Especially not if you got them on your whole body," Drew said with a laugh.
"That's right, assholes, laugh it up. But I swear . . ."
"Calm down." Drew rubbed at his shoulders, knowing they were tired from working at the computer all day."I swear I don't have crabs, and with this new arrangement, if I ever have them again it will be your fault, since as you said Arcadia can't get them."
He turned to look at her, a tentative smile on his face."Then you've decided to accept our proposal?"
"Yeah, but only if you don't call it a proposal." She shrugged."What the hell. Crabs wasn't all that pleasant for me, either. In fact, the only thing worse is this stupid tattoo shit, which neither of you are ever to talk me into doing when I'm drunk and feel like experimenting."
"Agreed," they both said.
"Oh, and stop doing that. It's just too creepy."
"Ok," they said. Drew sighed deeply and wondered just what she'd gotten herself into.
Dr. Sortas, who had once held the lofty position of palace surgeon, now found himself mucking pissy clothes from a shower stall. Early that morning when they had first started this work detail, Kentoric, a man Sortas had known since his childhood, had decided he wasn't taking orders from a commoner. The guards had marched him out into the courtyard and shot him. Then they ordered the rest of them to haul his body to the dumpster. Since then, no one had thought it was a good idea to buck the system.
Greed. Greed for money and position had led him to this. He'd had more than any one man should rightfully have, and he'd wanted to keep all of it and get still more. Then Drewcila came in with her maximum wage and her demotion of the nobility and shook his world to its foundations. But he hadn't actually lost anything but prestige, and how tangible an asset was that really?
He wondered about his family and how they were faring at this time. Whether they knew he was a prisoner. If they even knew if he was alive. He'd heard talk that the families of the nobles involved in the failed coup attempt were being evicted from their homes and land. They were being offered a choice of taking up residence in one of the work houses or going into military service. He and his wife had never had a particularly good relationship before, and he was assuming she probably hated his guts right now. Thank the gods both the kids were grown. Of course that meant it was probably military service for them, and probably on the front lines.
What a mess.
"You there! Back to work," the foreman ordered.